Odd Couple
by The General G of K
Summary: A collection of oneshots and vignettes focused on odd or rarely seen pairings in the Mediator Universe. Because sometimes, SuzeJesse & SuzePaul, get a tad tiring.
1. Buze Sackerman

**Odd Couple**

_By: The General_

**TG/N: **I sort of just had a spark of inspiration, and I needed to (well, wanted to) post it. See, while I love Paul and Suze—they will forever be my first OTP—to be perfectly honest, sometimes writing for them can get kind of stale. Which brings me back to my point: I needed a change of pace. So I've decided to create this little gem, writing various vignettes focusing on pairings (okay, more like _unusual_ pairings) that don't get much air time because for me, they are the most interesting.

The first pairing is Brad/Suze. Now, while this will probably offend a lot of people (I'm looking at you, Incest-Is-Bad crowd!), I've always just been eerily fascinated with the possibility of this pairing. Yes, it probably makes me CRAZY, but I just wanted to experiment. So without further ado, I bring you:

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Part One: Buze Sackerman (Brad/Suze) 

It's only the first time he has met her, and already he can't stand her. Her abused leather jacket makes her look like she's in some sort of biker gang; her nails are painted a violent shade of blue so blue they look like popsicles; and whenever she says a word ending in a vowel plus 'r', she sounds exactly like Fran Drescher from _The Nanny_, only, less annoying.

He thinks it's the moment she looks him up and down, sizes him up to absolutely nothing that really bothers him. Although, technically, there really is no reason why this should be at all.

He has enough X-rated memories to make a whore blush, but even among the sweat and the flesh, the one thing that truly sticks with him is when her hand brushes his as she sweeps by with her luggage to enter the Land Rover.

_Pull it together, Ackerman,_ he repeats the words of his wrestling coach to himself before promptly falling asleep in the car, head lolled back on the headrest.

- - -

He knows it's wrong. He's paid enough attention in religion class to know that much. Plus, anyone who as ever watched an episode of _Cops_ could tell you the same thing. You know, about the whole incest thing. Still, it doesn't stop him from hiding out in his room, subconsciously plotting reasons why it would just so happen he would need to walk past her room just to, you know, catch a glimpse inside. To check that she's safe, of course.

It's not like he's obsessed or anything. He's only done it a couple of times. Besides, she's his _step_-sister.

Still, he's sixty-eight percent sure he briefly saw her naked through the crack of the door during one of his walkabouts.

He's eighty-seven percent sure it was one of the greatest moments of his life.

Other than when the wrestling team went to Nationals and won in his sophomore year, of course. And when he and his dad watched _Rocky II_ for the first time.

Well, maybe he was eighty-eight point two percent sure, if he thinks about it a lot.

Which he hasn't.

- - -

He's sitting on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table, a bowl of popcorn to his right, and he's watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ with Slater, who is seated at the opposite end of the couch—guy code. His friend has never seen a single episode of the series, and while Brad has never been a huge dork over the whole thing—that was more David's thing—it has some decent elements to it, one of which is Buffy. He's always had a thing for petite blondes.

Still, he finds himself agitated—also kind of wigged—when Suze shoves the bowl of popcorn at him and situates herself on the couch cushion between him and Slater. There is absolutely no reason why she should affect him like this. She wasn't even his type.

Also: step-sister.

"Feel free to take up the whole couch, Dopey," she says, not even bothering to look at him. She's too engrossed in the TV, anyway. "It's a common mistake to believe no one exists in this house, save for you." She finds the remote and punches the 'volume up' button a couple times. "Ooh, it's Wesley!" she exclaims, before promptly collapsing into the back of the couch with a big grin. "So, Slater, what the hell are _you_ doing here?"

"Dopey" is the nickname she's been calling him every once in awhile since they've met. He supposes he should be offended, but the only emotion he can manage to emote is a mutated hybrid of amusement and pride over the fact that she took the time to come up with a nickname for him. He can't decide whether that is moronic or just plain makes him a dumbass.

For whatever reason, he leans toward the latter.

Meanwhile, Suze and Paul are carrying on with their conversation. "I never pinned you for a fan of the Slayer," he says, giving her one of those off-handed grins that are supposed to look casual, but Brad knows otherwise. The thought annoys him, and catches him off-guard by causing his hands to clench into fists. Viciously, he grabs more popcorn.

"Oh, yeah," Suze replies with a wave of her hand. She pulls her legs up and under her. "Back in Brooklyn, I used to watch it religiously. I felt like I could really relate to Buffy. Plus, I've always said that if I was forced to go lesbian, I would totally go Sarah Michelle Gellar."

It takes two whole minutes of pounding him on the back before Brad stops choking, and even then, he's still coughing. He excuses himself from the two and races upstairs to the bathroom.

It turns out to be one of the longest cold showers of his life. Probably because he can't seem to get the image of Sarah Michelle Gellar and his step-sister in an intimate embrace out of his head.

Later, when they ask, he tells them he got some butter from the popcorn all over himself and had to wash it off. Slater gives him a look of blatant disgust, but Brad brushes it off. There is no way he could possibly know what is going through his head.

At least, he hopes so, anyway.

- - -

He hasn't thought of her in months. He's kept contact to a minimum, and other than seeing her at mandatory meals and occasionally at school, he stays away from her which seems to work pretty well.

He has signed up for the SATs which take place in less than a week, he's been forced to take remedial chemistry, and just in case he's not busy enough, he's gotten back into the dating game once again.

Obviously, she's not Kelly Prescott, but there's something about Debbie Mancuso that is simple, and right now, he's okay with that. Plus, if he is being totally honest, it's sort of nice.

Two weeks into the relationship, she invites him over to her house after the wrestling team's victory over RLS. The excitement over the match is overwhelming, so he decides to head over there after he cleans up. The worst that could happen, he thinks, is he could get lucky.

They eat cookies she made for the occasion (they're chocolate chip), and she alludes to her abandonment issues during the slow parts of _The Patriot_, but to be honest, he's not really listening. Not because he doesn't care—well, actually, that's pretty accurate—but because he can't help but be annoyed that she forced him into watching this movie. He's never been a huge Mel Gibson fan. It's always been John McClane over Mad Max for him. Always.

Although, when he thinks about it, _Lethal Weapon_ isn't too bad. Good enough to be on his top five movies list, anyway.

Still, for whatever reason, he can't seem to remember his complaint, let alone what it was over, when her lips touch his. And he can remember it even less when she slides her hand down his pants. For once, his mind is completely void of thought save for the one planning a gambit (one of his SAT words, he thinks idly) that will lead to the actual sex part of the making-out process. She straddles him and begins pressing kisses on his neck, along his throat. A feeling of immense pleasure begins bubbling from the pit of his stomach, up his esophagus, until it finally holes up in his mouth, exiting in the form of an elongated groan. His head lolls back, eyes closed, and before he can stop himself, he moans in sheer bliss, "Oh, Suze, yeah . . ."

Immediately, the kisses stop, and Debbie sits up straight, her pelvis a lot less enthusiastic. For the first time, he realizes she's sort of heavy and that his legs kind of hurt. "What did you say?" she demands, fires igniting in the pits of her pupils. Her lip is trembling, but he's pretty sure she's less likely to cry than punch him in the nuts.

He's shocked, to say the least, that those words even left his mouth, and he's been doing so well, what with the not thinking about Suze and all. Suddenly, his hands start shaking, they're gleaming with sweat. If he really thinks about it, he knows it's due to an overwhelming sense of fear and not the familiar nervousness pre-sex.

"Debbie," he protests, unsure, really, of what to say, "I—"

After glaring menacingly, she rolls—yes, he decides, it's a definite roll—off of him and stands, jabbing a mauve painted finger at the front door. "Eww, Ackerman, you are so disgusting! God," she shrieks, her eyes bright with tears, "she's your _sister_, you freak!"

_Step-sister_, he thinks automatically, flinching at both his patheticness and the pillow Mancuso hurls at him as he sort of limps out of the house to the Land Rover.

In his defense, Mancuso _did_ have her hands down his pants.

- - -

He enjoys lifting weights. Even if it wasn't necessary for wrestling, he knows he would still pump iron. He always lifts to music because the sound of Van Halen in the background always dulls the tension in his muscles, plus, David Lee Roth has always been somewhat of a hero to him. He has a match next week, and it doesn't look like he's going to make weight even though he's been lifting for the past three weeks. Only within the past month has he been given the shot to graduate from weight class one eighty to one ninety-five. No matter how much he's eaten, he still can't gain the last three pounds, and he has never been a huge supporter of shooting 'roids. But as the seconds dwindle, he's seriously considering going against what he believes in . . .

Three reps complete. Two more to go. First, one lift up, then down. One lift up, then—

His muscle cramps, and before he can place the dumbbell on the rack, his left arm quivers, causing it to drop on his stomach, roll off, and land on his foot. The air is knocked out of him, and even though he's struggling to breathe, he still manages to hurl the nearest object—a _Rambo_ DVD—at his CD player in frustration, which causes it to repeat the same "Jump!" lyric over and over again.

"Son of a _bitch_!"

He rolls the dumbbell off of his foot and hobbles over to his bed, clutching his stomach as he carefully takes a seat on the bed's edge. The pain is numbing, and it sucks, but he's suffered worse. By worse, of course, he means the damn CD player that keeps repeating the same freaking lyric.

And, also, that one, and only, time he sat through _Titanic_.

At the sound of footsteps, he goes to twist around, but pain seers through his stomach, so he decides to stay put and wait for whoever entered to come closer. He reaches for the nightstand's drawer and opens it, grabbing the photograph under his secret stash of condoms and an abused copy of _The Old Man and the Sea_ from remedial English he was supposed to read, but never actually picked up. He turns the photo over. He hasn't looked at it in ages.

"Are you okay?" It's David, and he looks concerned. Not concerned enough to drop the graphing calculator he's grasping onto for dear life, currently. But concerned all the same. "I heard a crash coming from your room," he continues, kicking aside a stray tube sock nervously, "and I thought—Are-Are you crying, Brad?"

He bats at the few tears clinging to his lashes angrily before stashing the photograph away hastily and defending, "No, I'm not crying! Get outta my room, Dave."

The last part's not so much defending as it is being an asshole, but he kind of wants to be alone at the moment. For multiple reasons.

David refuses to leave and instead walks over to the CD player, stopping the repeating monstrosity. The following silence is a stark contrast to the previous rambunctious calamity (two more SAT words, he thinks again) that it shocks him, but at least he's grateful to have regained his sanity. Still, it'd be nice if David would leave him the hell alone. But he doesn't voice any of this. Instead he explains, "I dropped the dumbbell on my foot, satisfied? Now if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you would get out of my room."

David ignores all of this. He walks over to where Brad is and takes a seat next to him on the bed. "I know you were crying," he says defiantly. "Your tear ducts are enlarged, and the skin around your eyes is swollen."

"Dave!" Brad explodes, emphasizing his point by punching his brother in the arm roughly. "Get the hell out of my room!"

The little guy's bottom lip trembles, and he feels badly, but the damage is already done. "Fine! But I'm taking my _Guild Wars_ game back!" David informs him, grabbing the thing and storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

By himself once again, he takes the photo and turns it over. No matter how many times he looks at it, regret still manages eat at his insides until it's difficult to breathe. Regret at not having enough time together. Regret at not showing he loved her all the time. Regret at not having her in his life anymore to share his biggest accomplishments. Admittedly, he had always been a bit of a momma's boy, but to date, he can't come up with a better friend than she had been to him.

Dad was too involved with Helen. Jack was doing his college thing, and David was way too young to have the kind of relationship he had with her. He can't count the number of times he's come up here just to sneak a peek at an inanimate photo, holding out for some glimmer of a life sign coming from his mom. It gets lonely. And hopeless. Like watching a dog chase its tail. It's never going to catch it. And she's never going to be alive again.

Once again, the door clicks open. Without turning around, he roars angrily, "I thought I told you to get the _he_—" His heart sinks. "Oh," he says dryly when he sees it's Suze and not his brother, "it's _you_."

Suze, untouched by this, rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. He notices she's wearing green, in a distant part of his brain. That same part of his brain registers that the color looks good on her. "And it's _you_," she replies, mocking his greeting. He barely notices. "I heard a crash. And not that it's a huge concern of mine or anything, but are you okay?"

He looks up from his photograph and glares at her, hoping she will spontaneously combust. No such luck. "Yeah, I'm just great," he assures her. "Now, get out of my room."

She ignores him, and he begins to wonder if he has suddenly gone mute or maybe everyone else, deaf. If so, he never received the memo. Taking a turn he never expected, she asks, "What've you got there?"

"Nothing," he replies automatically, making an attempt to once again hide it. However, she's too quick and grabs it before he can do more than shift it to the right a few inches. He protests loudly, but again, he goes unheard. He seriously considers investing in a bullhorn.

Suze looks it over before saying in a superior, mocking fashion, "Aren't you a bit too young to be into Soccer Moms with kids?"

Bitterly, he snatches the photo out of her hand and mutters hastily, "That's my mom, you jackass!" For whatever reason, calling her a foul name makes him feel a little better. Actually, a lot. Better than finishing the SATs.

For the first time since he has known her, she looks apologetic, possibly even humiliated. Maybe sympathetic, but that's stretching it.

"I-I'm sorry," she apologizes quietly. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, well," he bursts, unable to keep his temper in check any more, "there's a lot you don't know about me."

There is silence, and for a moment he is led to believe she left the room, but the mattress shifts downward slightly, and he knows she he has taken a seat next to him. For whatever reason, the knowledge causes his heart to go crazy and in turn makes his stomach, foot, and head throb. And since when did his palms sweat?

"You know," she starts, "after my dad died, I could barely take it. I dropped everything—school, friends, extracurrics—because suddenly none of that mattered in comparison to losing my dad. It was like 'what's the worst thing they can do to me?' But what really bothered me was when my mom forced me out here to go live with some strange guy. It was like she didn't even care that Dad died, or at least, that's what I told myself, anyway. And it sucked, you know?"

He can only nod because never in a million years could he guess that his step-sister and him would be sharing this in common.

"I felt like I was the only one who still cared enough to remember him," she continues, talking with her hands as usual. "And sometimes I still feel that way, but then I realize I'm just being selfish. My mom still loves my dad, and she always will, but she's moving on, which is something I just have a more difficult time of doing. Plus, I mean, Andy's good for my mom, as I'm sure my mom is good for Andy. They're happy together." She pauses to brush a piece of hair behind her ear. "At least, we've still got the memories, right?"

"Right," he agrees, completely unaware how this . . . _thing_ changes their relationship. His confusion is cleared up within the next three seconds.

If only Algebra II had been that easy.

She reaches out and covers the hand that's not holding the photo with one of hers. He's surprised to realize they're kind of clammy. Just like his.

"Hey," she says softly, patting his hand for emphasis, "I can't believe I'm even offering this, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always available."

He can't seem to breathe, let alone speak. Whether it's because of the giant lump in his throat or a short circuit wiring in his brain, he can't tell.

Mistaking his silence for grief, she continues, saying, "Normally, I'm not Miss Optimist, but don't worry. Things will get better. They _have _to. Trust me."

He manages to swallow the lump in his throat and utters a, "Thanks," because anything else just sounds ridiculous or like it's from a sci-fi trilogy.

She continues to stare at him, and he at her, each either unable or unwilling to move. It's difficult to say. All he knows is that when he drops the photo and reaches up to cup her face with the free hand, he never actually planned for any of it to happen. Not even the part where she kind of leans in first to kiss him. Or the part where he actually does kiss her, and she actually responds.

He doesn't want to say that when their lips touch, it is one of the single greatest moments of his life (behind the aforementioned list) because it sounds moronic and overly sappy. But if anyone tires of logic, it's Brad Ackerman. To date, it's one of the least X-rated kisses he's ever received (or given). In fact, just when he finally presses his tongue in her mouth, she pulls away abruptly, her eyes wide. But it doesn't change the fact that it's the first time he's ever experienced all that bullshit from the movies when kissing someone. The electric shock. The heart flutter. The weakened knees (although that one could very well be an aftershock from the crushed foot, he decides).

The slight fear and guilt that you may just have been on the giving and receiving end of an incestual encounter which in many states is considered a felony.

You know, the basics.

Immediately, Suze bolts off of the bed. "I have to, uh," she says, stumbling as she backs out of the room as quickly as someone who has committed incest can actually go. "I have to go, uh, you know, check on that _thing_ . . . um, later."

He barely gets a word out edgewise as she scrambles down the hallway, but he can't seem to get mad about it or even a little annoyed. In fact, he's too busy thanking the Powers That Be that no one walked in on him kissing his sister.

Step_-sister_, he reminds himself, though it doesn't do much to soothe the part of him that just _knows_ the cops will be there in a matter of minutes.

- - -

The Winter Formal is in about a week. He can't help but feel slightly put out. He hates dressing up, and he hates bowties even more. Something about the size of his neck in proportion to the daintiness of the bowtie makes him feel like a putz. If it wasn't for the fact that girls actually melt at the sight of guys in tuxedos, he would not bother going at all.

Luckily for him, all things considered, Debbie's come down with mono, and the only other girl who is even interested in him is in love with one Paul Slater.

And the other girl? Not worth mentioning. Also: _STEP-SISTER_.

It's a gorgeous day outside; the sun is shining, the conversation is pretty good, and, surprisingly, a gull hasn't attacked him as of yet. He's feeling pretty arrogant until Paul Slater sidles up to his picnic table and sits down in the seat next to him without so much as asking.

"Hey, Ackerman," he poses, straddling the seat so he is looking directly at Brad. Brad shivers. Still, after a couple months, the guy gives him the heebie jeebies. "I've got a question for you."

"Shoot," Brad allows, his mouth crammed full of masticated corndog. He can't remember the last time he has tasted something so . . . well, tasteless.

"See, I was thinking of asking Suze to the Winter Formal," Paul explains, talking low and evenly. "And since I'm a gentleman, figured I'd run it past you, what with you being her step-brother and all. What do you think?"

He doesn't even take a minute to think. He knows his answer already, and Paul's probably not going to like it. "No," he says simply, returning to a geology assignment he never finished the previous night. He can't really explain it, but just the thought of Paul being near Suze makes his skin crawl.

Also, the thought of _that_ thought makes him feel sick. Where were the self-help books instructing one how to fall _out_ of love with your step-sister? Huh? Where were _those_ books for sickos such as himself? His stomach turns inside out. He feels like he's going to hurl.

Paul frowns. He swings his leg over the picnic bench so he's now facing forward. He turns his head so he can give eye contact to Brad. "No?" Paul questions, looking, rightfully so, confused. "Why? I mean—" He laughs. "—it's not as if _you're_ going to take her, right?"

Brad laughs far too loudly to sound normal. Luckily, the only one who realizes this is himself. "Dude, of course not," he deflects, filling in some random answer for multiple choice number two. It is most likely wrong. "But I've seen the way Suze acts around you. She's going to say 'no.'"

"With the right amount of persuasion—" he insists, cocking his head to one side in a thoughtful manner.

"No," Brad says defiantly. For unexplained reasons, his free hand clenches around the end of the picnic table. He used to be cool before he met Suze. "She's going to reject you. You know I'm right. But, honestly, I think you should take Kelly. She's good for you."

"I'll think about it," Paul says. He grabs his things and stands up in preparation to head towards third period. Before doing so, he gestures to Brad. "What about you, Ackerman?" he asks. "I thought you said she was flickin'."

Brad shrugs. Really, when he thinks about it, he has the gayest conversations of all time. "Dude, ever since you showed up, I'm being cock blocked twenty-four seven," he laments only half seriously. "Mainly because the cock she really wants is yours," he adds, a shadow of a grin present. "Besides, I got other stuff I can do that night."

Slater grins. "You do realize that's code for spending the entire night whacking off, right?" he questions. Brad nods. Sadly, he does realize it. "Whatever, man. Catch you later then."

"Yeah. Later."

Paul stops. "By the way," he pronounces, "this thing you've got going with Suze? It's borderline incest. You know that, right?"

Brad gulps.

* * *

**_TG/N: Up next . . . Slebb (Paul/Cee Cee) (Or the really immature name: Pee Pee Slebb)_**

**_Review! Comment! Just click the button!_**


	2. Pee Pee Slebb

**TG/N: **So today was a pretty good day for me. Not only is my college Economics class FINALLY over (Did someone say 3 HOUR final??), but . . . okay, well, that was really all the good news. But it was certainly enough to motivate me to update my newest endeavor! Plus, did I mention the three hour final? Anyway, please enjoy one of my personal favorite odd pairings:

**Part Two: Pee Pee Slebb (Cee Cee/Paul)**

It's the first day of her junior year, and she could not be happier. She has been waiting for junior year practically since elementary school. Eleventh grade is the year Adam McTavish falls irrevocably in love with her. It's the year her stupid braces come off. And it's the year her chest finally fills out. And the year where she stops being an albino.

At least, she hopes so anyway.

Part one of the plan fails miserably as the subject has been leering at Suze since they have arrived. Due to The Rubber Band Incident, the braces have to stay on for a couple more months. And, if anything, her chest has actually shrunk in size. It figures that in an attempt to shed some baby fat over the summer, it all comes away from her chest.

And the albino thing? Well, it's an irreversible situation she just has to deal with. Doesn't much change the fact that it blows, though, she thinks miserably.

Although she didn't spend all of her savings on clothes and make-up like Suze—who somehow manages to look even _prettier_ than last year—did this summer, she finds a pretty sweet ensemble. It consists of a violet peasant top, with flow-y sleeves, a pair of black, leather pants that kind of make her butt look awesome, she admits uncomfortably (Suze _made_ her borrow them, even though she has never worn leather pants in her entire life mostly because she is not a dominatrix. Not that Suze is, of course. But she at least has a chest, which sort of gives her the right to own leather pants), and her own personal touch, the purple Nike's she won her first spelling bee in. They are her good luck charm, even though the luck is kind of being handed out sparingly at the moment, as if the shoes are rationing it out like gasoline in the eighties.

It's similes like this that are most likely the reason she has yet to snag Adam. Also, she _really_ enjoys the _Indiana Jones_ movies. Adam, not so much.

"Oomph!" Suddenly, she is splayed on her back, and her school supplies—books, binders, papers—are scattered everywhere, like she has stepped in the center of a mine field. Really, the amount of school supplies surrounding her is unbelievably abnormal for the first day of school, but that's what she gets for taking accelerated courses. Whoever heard of homework over the summer?

Sister Ernestine, obviously.

She sits up, tearing herself from the thought of her school things and realizes that she has walked into a guy. A cute guy. Way cute.

"Oh, my God," she laments nervously, brushing herself off, "I am so sorry!"

"No, _I'm_ sorry," he insists, brushing her apology to the way side. "I'm the one who walked into _you_. It's my first day, and I was trying to find—oh, here, let me help you."

Before she can protest, he starts picking her things up in what appear to be pretty muscular arms. She helps him since it _is_ partly her fault they are in this predicament in the first place, plus, she doesn't want to seem ungrateful. She has never been one to stand around while others work. It goes against the sense of work ethic her parents have jammed into her brain since she could say 'gross domestic product'.

She grabs one of his books and sees that it is the same advanced trigonometry book she has. Her heart skips a beat. Something about cute guys and math makes her knees weak. She likes math. It's constant. Point A always leads to Point B, and the rules to it never have any conditions, like in English. They always work.

Unlike her brain at the moment, anyway.

"Are you okay?" she asks abruptly, scrambling up from her spot. He follows suit, though not as quickly, and she finally notices he is carrying her things. For the first time in her life, a guy is carrying her books.

For about 2.5 seconds, but still.

He hands them over to her, and she accepts them willingly, blushing like a lunatic, but he doesn't notice because he's too busy massaging his forehead. "I'm fine. I mean, my head's throbbing a little, but . . . whoa, you have a lot of books there."

Slightly embarrassed, she laughs in that nervous way that's far too loud to be normal. "Oh, well, the occupational hazard of taking accelerated courses. But, um, with your head, you're young; it should heal," she advises lamely, with an even worse strained smile.

Even on a good day, she is never _this_ lame.

He laughs politely, and she notices his really white teeth sparkle like those plates on those Dawn commercials with the overly excited housewives. Also, his shirt is a very pretty blue, and it matches his eyes. "'Ah, it's not the years, honey, it's the mileage,'" he says absentmindedly as he straightens a crease in his shirt. A small smile tugs at his lips, as if he's laughing at an inside joke.

Only, it's not that inside to someone who has seen _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ as many times as she has. She smiles, unable to help herself. She's never met a guy who quotes _Raiders_ and likes math. Well, other than her older cousin, Lenny. But, _eww_, no attraction there.

She hands him his things, and after he says thanks, she gestures for him to go ahead of him. "'Asps,'" she quotes from memory, the exact scene from the movies playing in her mind. "'Very dangerous. You go first."

He looks at her oddly before grinning, and she can't help but notice that it's one of those lopsided, half-grins that Harrison Ford is so good at executing. One of those grins that make her heart pound irrationally, and cause her brain to sort of melt so she is tempted to draw embarrassing hearts all over her notebooks or recite the first sixty-five decimal places of pi from memory.

"Nice to know someone else at this place has good taste."

She doesn't do any of those things, though. Instead, she directs him towards the chapel when he asks, and completely forgets to ask his name.

Sometimes, she really wishes she would grow a set.

* * *

Sister Ernestine, for lack of another term, is a bitch.

As she sits in the lumpy, orange waiting seats lining the walls of the administrative office, holding a disciplinary office referral in her hands, she doesn't understand why this epiphany never occurred to her before. After all, it was Sister Ernestine who made that senior cry last year when she accused him of stealing from the basilica. And he was on the _wrestling_ team.

It figures that the _one_ time she makes a risky choice with her wardrobe, Sister Ernestine issues her a referral sighting "distasteful and entirely inappropriate trousers" which is ridiculous because they are just pants. It _totally_ makes sense that she is issued her first office referral _ever_ for a stupid pair of leather pants that aren't even hers. It's not even like the pants were bought from "Hoochies 'R Us". They are just a normal pair of pants!

Still, she completes the walk of shame up to the receptionist's—Angela, her name is Angela—desk and hands her the referral, barely looking Angela in the eyes. In return, she is told to wait in the waiting area, and as she walks over to the ugly orange seat she is currently sitting in, she discovers it's even more embarrassing than the walk to the receptionist's desk because there's a guy sitting across the room, and suddenly, she feels dirty, like she's descended into the ranks of 'delinquent,' and out of nowhere, she feels like crying. At the same time, however, a thrill seems to shoot through her spine at the thought that she is now labeled as a rebel. The moment the thrill appears, it's gone though because as exciting as rebellion is to her, she's pretty certain Stanford and MIT will not share in her sentiment. She frowns.

_Stupid pants._

"So, we meet again."

She looks up to discover that the guy who was sitting there earlier is actually the guy she bumped into this morning. He's haphazardly filling something out on a clipboard, but it doesn't stop him from grinning like he's actually pleased to see her.

_Her_. The albino freak that likes math and couldn't get Adam McTavish to like her even if she got breast implants, dyed her hair, and legally changed her name to Suze Simon. It's the first time a guy has looked at her like that, and it's a pleasant change, she admits.

She smiles in return. It only seems polite. "I leave you for forty-five minutes, and you're in trouble already?" she asks lightly. Technically, it is considered flirting, but Cee Cee has never been able to tell the difference. Unlike Suze, who seems to have mastered the skill in pre-K.

He entertains her and laughs, once again showing off those brilliantly white teeth. She notices the Bic pen looks so small in comparison to the massive hand that is gripping onto it, and that he is really tan. "No," he says, smiling, "it's nothing like that. Not yet, at least. I was just called down to fill out these forms as a part of my registration since I'm a new student. What about you?"

"Oh." She rolls her eyes and holds up the referral. "Just a slight misconception."

"You know," he replies, "it occurs to me I never introduced myself." He gets out of his seat and walks over to where she sits, his arm extended, and it's weird because from where she sits, his crotch is right at her eye line. Immediately, she can feel her face get red and because she's an albino, it is about five times worse, so she abruptly stands up. When she grasps his hand, it surprises her to find that his grasp is very firm, and his skin is kind of rough from the calluses. Although, in comparison to her clammy palms, it's acceptable.

"I'm Paul Slater," he informs her, shaking her hand. He really does have the longest eyelashes.

"Welcome to Junipero Serra Mission Academy. I'm Cee Cee Webb," she introduces herself.

He smiles again and retrieves his hand from the handshake that probably lasts too long. Unsure of what to do, Cee Cee places one hand in her pants pocket and rubs her eye with the other one. The downside to this plan is that she forgets she is wearing eye shadow. Lilac powder covers her knuckles, but she shoves that hand in the other pocket, feeling more mortified by the second.

Before she can make a further fool of herself, Father Dominic comes out of his office and waves at her before motioning for Paul to follow him. Paul goes over, not before gathering his clipboard and pen, and calls over his shoulder, "Well, it was nice meeting you, Cee Cee."

"Yeah, see you around, Paul," she says. She watches until the door closes behind the two, and then walks toward the breezeway, completely forgetting about the entire reason she is in the office in the first place.

Unfortunately, Angela, the receptionist, remembers. "Ms. Webb, please take a seat. You are not allowed to leave yet."

She frowns and angrily stalks back to her seat, grumbling, "Yeah, yeah, I'll take my damn seat."

She used to really like Angela.

* * *

It figures that Paul Slater is evil.

The one (cute) guy who is not repulsed by her turns out to be evil. Or at least Suze says so, at any rate. But that sounds like an overly flippant statement, if anyone asks her.

Which, sadly, no one does.

The only details she has gathered as of that moment are that Suze and Paul met over the summer and that he apparently has a thing for Suze, which completely figures.

And, admittedly, sort of sucks.

But no matter how her feelings sway, she sides with Suze because, ultimately, she is the only genuine girl friend she's ever had in the history of the sad state that is her life. So she agrees not to associate with Paul Slater because whether or not she believes it, he is evil.

Which is precisely why she refuses to speak to him in religion class. Even though he _is_ wearing an Indiana Jones-esque leather jacket over a navy-blue top and some khakis. The only thing missing is the fedora.

But he's evil, and once she's checked him out one—or eight times—she falls back into her pew and goes on pretending to care about what Sister Ernestine says.

She doesn't expect him to sidle in next to her on the pew after he walks in. Seriously, on a list of things she expects to happen to her before she dies, this is probably one of the very last things on it, if it's on at all. But he does.

"We have got to stop running into each other like this," he says with the same sly, lopsided grin from yesterday. As he slides in, his leg accidentally brushes hers. He may be evil, but she doesn't exactly hate the sensation.

Still staring straight ahead, she mumbles, "I'm not supposed to talk to you."

For the first time since meeting him, his brows furrow, and he looks confused. She briefly notices that even confusion looks good on him. "Why not?" he asks, sounding almost kind of hurt.

"Because you're evil," she states simply, not wanting to get into it. It's bad enough that he almost seems distraught at the thought of not talking to her again. _Her_! _Cee Cee Webb_! Why does her best friend have to be a crazy person?

Immediately, Paul's facial expression drops and is replaced with a frown of dubiousness and slight anger, if she's not mistaken. He grabs a Bible from the pew in front of him and begins paging through it mindlessly. "Lemme guess," he says darkly, not tearing his gaze from the black and white pages in front of him. She's thankful because she fears that if she looks into his very blue eyes, she will break all stoicism, beg him for forgiveness, and propose marriage. Or an elopement. Either is equally embarrassing. "Suze told you that?"

She nods. _More or less_.

"That figures," he grumbles a little too loudly, which causes Sister Ernestine to holler a reprimand in his direction. When she finally goes on with her lesson, Paul turns back toward Cee Cee, grasps her shoulders with both hands, and turns her so she is facing him. "Look, Suze is just resentful because over the summer, she didn't take advantage of an opportunity I offered to her. Don't tell me the one ally I have in this new school is turning on me because of that," he says with feigned fear. His eyes sparkle, even though there is barely any light in the basilica. She considers that perhaps she is just hallucinating as she remembers that her head has been swimming in the scent of his cologne since he placed his hands on her shoulders. "Do I _really_ seem evil to you?"

She shakes her head, but realizes a verbal response would probably be better considering the situation. She hopes her voice doesn't shake. "Not really," seems to be the most appropriate response to his question, at least, she thinks so anyway.

"See?" he proves, relinquishing—unfortunately—his grasp on her shoulders. "Just because Suze stubbornly chooses to believe I am evil doesn't mean we can't talk. Besides," he adds with that lopsided grin again. It's so quiet in the basilica—other than Sister Ernestine's obnoxious squawk—that she swears the entire group can hear her heart suddenly thud to life, "who else can I discuss logarithms and unit circles with?"

She returns his grin even though one half of her still feels unsure about him and this betrayal of Suze. She is, after all, her best friend in the _entire_—

"Okay," she agrees. Because, in the end, she has a crush on the guy, and crushes have been known to make people do stupid things. Even really smart people.

"Ms. Webb, Mr. Slater," Sister Ernestine yells harshly, "if the two of you continue to interrupt me, then not only will you be issued detention slips, but the Lord shall no longer look favorably upon both of you. "Now,"—Here, she issues them a scowl, full of unspoken meaning.—"if it is acceptable to both of you, I would like to continue with my lesson." Cee Cee fails to hide the angry look on her face.

"Does she always have a stick stuck that far up her ass?" Paul asks out of the side of his mouth once Sister Ernestine is turned the other way.

Cee rolls her eyes and nods. "Oh, yeah."

* * *

He gets her a fedora for her birthday.

Not one of those cheap ones, either. It's the real deal. The lining is genuine silk, and the outside is one hundred percent wool.

It's essentially the best present ever.

Despite what Adam thinks. He never appreciated Indiana Jones anyway.

* * *

She feels like her heart might burst. The only other time she can remember being this happy is back in fourth grade when she watched Discovery Channel's Shark Week for the first time. Oh, or that time when Adam told her that her shoes were "nice." Or-or that one time when she went jogging and that truck honked, and later, the driver whistled at her.

Eww, now that she thinks about it, that guy was probably in his late forties.

Anyway, the point is she is really happy. Beyond happy, really.

After all, it isn't every day that the man you're crushing on tells off Sister Ernestine. Something you've been dying to do since birth, it seems. She had wanted to kiss him, right there in the breezeway, but somehow it didn't seem appropriate. Although, about two seconds later, one of the other nuns asks her to escort him to his car, and she couldn't help but think that that was way better.

Except somehow, her day gets even better because Paul doesn't leave the school right away. Instead, he situates himself on the hood of his car and asks her to join him, and even though he's evil and everything, she accepts his offer faster than anything she has ever done before in her life. The scene is like one in a movie and not like one from Cee Cee Webb's life, and it surprises her that she's forgotten all about Adam flirting with Suze this morning, and how, as she sits next to this Adonis on the hood of his car, she doesn't even really care about the whole thing. Somehow, when she's around this boy everything—her albinism, her utter lack of being able to snare a boy—ceases to exist. She's free. And when he pulls out a cigarette—"I only smoke when I'm really worked up," he explains—lights up, takes a puff, and offers it to her, she takes it, even though she has never smoked before. Hey, what does she have to worry about?

Her throat burns as she inhales the smoke, and her eyes water, and it's pretty obvious that she's new to the whole thing when she starts coughing like an idiot. He grins at her, slightly amused, and gently pats her on the back, which doesn't help at all, but is a nice gesture all the same. When the coughing clears up, she takes another drag of the cigarette, and the cycle begins all over again.

"You're going to hurt yourself," Paul says, prying the cigarette from her fingers and inserting it into his own mouth. "I'm cutting you off, Webb."

"Says the guy who flipped off a nun," she challenges between coughs. She watches as he expertly exhales a plume of smoke and wonders how he manages to execute everything so gracefully.

He closes his eyes and allows the sun to soak into his exposed skin. A small smile threatens to appear on his face. "I guess we're not so different, you and I," he voices, tapping the excess ash off of the tip of his cigarette.

"Right. Except for the whole thing where you can get anyone to fall in love with you, and I can't even get Adam McTavish to look my way," she points out dryly. She takes the cigarette from Paul, and this time it doesn't burn so much when she inhales because she remembers to exhale.

Paul snorts and sits up, watching a few seagulls fly by. "Sure, anyone but Suze. If it's any consolation," he empathizes, "she rejected me, too." He takes a moment and flicks the cigarette to the pavement. The sea breeze carries it away. "Well, you know what?" he suddenly asks, shrugging. "Fuck 'em!"

Cee Cee nods. "Exactly!—Wait, _what_?"

He turns to face her. She pays him the same respect. "Who needs Suze and Adam?" he asks. "Not us, that's for sure. And you know why?"

"No, why?"

"Because," he states, his gaze glued to hers. "We've got each other."

"Right," Cee Cee agrees, somewhat confused. Only then, when he encases one of her hands in his, does she realize how close they are, on the roof of his car. "Each other."

His mouth is hot and smoky on hers, and when he presses her into the hood of the car, she can't help but think that she's in a dream because no one—she repeats, _no one_—has ever pressed her into the hood of a car before. And even though it might hurt a little, she doesn't notice because she's too bent on making sure the kissing goes on forever. Seriously, it's better than Shark Week.

His hair feels exactly like she expects—soft and silky—because he doesn't use hair gel. And his lips feel so right against hers, not to mention his stomach, which must house every single muscle in his entire body. It occurs to her that she has never kissed a guy with a six-pack.

She doesn't hate it.

When he comes up for air, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin right above the waistline of her capris, her hands tangled in his hair, Paul smiles at her and whispers, "See what I mean? You and I? We're all we need."

"Yeah," Cee Cee replies, her voice raspy. "I get that now."

This time, she's the one who initiates the second kiss.

* * *

**_TG/N: Drum roll, please. Up next (as requested) . . . McSivish (Adam/Suze) (Or: Susadam McSivish)_**

**_As always, let your voice be heard! Review! Comment! Request! Press that li'l ol' button!_**


	3. Susadam McSivish

**TG/N: **Just a quick disclaimer: some of the dialog in this installment belongs solely to Meg Cabot and is used in the strictest sense of reverence and time placement. On that note, the first section takes place during _Shadowland_, the second and third during _Ninth Key_, fourth _Darkest Hour_, and the fifth _Haunted_ after the huge Jesse/Paul showdown.

**Part Three: Susadam**** McSivish (Suze/Adam)**

He's heard things about her all morning. In homeroom, it's all about how she has transferred from New York. In English class, he hears talk concerning her rumored criminal record. And he overhears Rob Kelleher in sociology tell Brad Ackerman she has the sweetest "T and A". Everyone can't stop talking about the new girl, and when she walks into the main office—the same one he just happens to be sitting in—he knows why.

Just by looking at her for less than two seconds, he knows that, A, for the first time in his life he is forced to agree with _Rob Kelleher _of all people, and, B, that she could _easily_ kick his ass on any given day of the week and mount his carcass in her trophy room with all her other kills.

_Trophy room?_ He hasn't even spoken a single word to her yet, and already he has managed to make an idiot of himself.

She sits there nervously with her mom standing nearby, and her eyes are glued to the crucifix statue above Angela, the receptionist's, head. Her eyes—the new girl's, not Angela's—he notices are the same color as his friend's birthstone. For a moment, he remains motionless, unable to stop staring. It's the prettiest shade of green he has ever seen before.

"He's supposed to weep tears of blood if any girl ever graduates from here a virgin." When he finally regains his ability to speak, this seems like the classic Adam McTavish thing to say. He knows religious humor is risky, but the risk seems worth it when she rewards his statement with laughter. Even her laugh sounds beautiful, he thinks to himself longingly.

Somehow in the last ten minutes, he has become that moron in English, Sir Walter Snot, or whatever his name is. _Great . . ._

"It's true," he continues, ignoring Angela's tired remarks and the new girl's mother who is glaring at him disapprovingly. "It happened last year. My sister." He drops his voice conspiratorially. "She's adopted."

Once again, she makes that sound. That laugh. And he decides that, ultimately, it's the best sound on the planet. Well, other than the _Super Mario Bros._ theme song, but no one needs to know about that. Ever.

Some time later, she exits Father Dominic's office, with him in tow, preparing to go to her first class. The good father instructs him to stay put and wait for him.

"No prob, _Padre_." As she walks out the door, he can't help but stare. Is it even possible to look as good leaving as she does entering? In all honesty, he doesn't mind pondering the answer to that question all morning.

_No prob at all._

* * *

She's the only one wearing a bathing suit.

It's a pool party in northern California, and she is the only one wearing a bathing suit. Maybe from being around Kelly Prescott too much, connotations of pool parties lack anything even resembling swimming and instead bring about images of drunk, gyrating bodies in civilian clothes. The sheer simplicity and originality of wearing a swimsuit to a pool party is profound.

In that moment, he realizes that what he feels for Suze Simon goes far beyond attraction.

What he feels is reverence.

When she waves at him from across the pool, he beckons her over to his small, pathetic corner of the Prescotts' backyard; only, unlike any other instance in his life, he doesn't have to whack her over the head with baseball bat because she walks over to him willingly. It would be a miracle except for the fact he doesn't believe in them. They have occurred so infrequently in his life, why should he?

"So," he asks, suddenly feeling speechless and quite possibly like a tool, "having a good time?"

She looks at him and rolls her eyes, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe he spoke (or thought, really) too soon and that she thinks he's pathetic, but then she follows it up by saying, "Oh, yeah, I'm having a _great_ time, what with being the only mook here in a swimsuit. I feel like I'm _really_ starting to fit in among my peers."

He realizes then that she rolled her eyes at her predicament and not at his inability to ever say something cool. The thought makes him breathe easier. Plus, she used the term "mook." It's one of the only things he remembers from that movie _Mean Streets_. At least now, he thinks, if the conversation falters, he will have something to fall back on. Silently, he mutters thanks to whoever is listening up above.

Most likely, it's no one.

"Oh, come on," he sympathizes, boldly throwing an arm around her shoulders. To his astonishment, she does not remove it. His heart just about explodes. "You look great! In fact, any time you want to wear that to school, or my house—just a for instance—you are _more_ than welcome to. Encouraged, even."

That sweet sound of mirth exits past her lips, and for a second it seems like he has gone to heaven (you know, if he believed in that sort of thing), but then she smiles at him and somehow her laughter seems trivial in comparison. Subconsciously, he wonders if it is even possible to feel this good without being on drugs because if not, then someone must have slipped something into his drink.

For a second, he debates whether or not it was a roofie. If so, he blames Rob Kelleher. There is no way that kid is not repressing homosexual urges.

Playfully, she pushes him off of her, but he doesn't really care because he is too busy being seduced by her laughter and smile, of all things. For him, it's always been about a girl's laugh, as strange as it is. "I appreciate the sentiment," she assures him, pushing a strand of hair behind her ears, "but you'll understand if I am still somewhat mortified by the turn of events."

She crosses her arms over her chest, and he can see the goose flesh on them from the slight Carmel breeze. If he had a jacket, he certainly would have given it to her; however, Adam McTavish has never been synonymous with suave or well prepared for situations such as this. "But enough about me," she continues, after a slight pause. "Where's Cee Cee?"

He shrugs. "Who knows? She's probably in the pool house making out with your step-brother," he adds jokingly.

Suze finds the suggestion shudder-worthy more so than funny. Still, she smiles at him again, and this time, he feels like he just might be loser enough to faint. The feeling is intensified when she grabs his hand. Thankfully, it's not sweaty.

Yet.

"Listen," she begins, "I'm really sorry to cut this short, but Kelly wants me to dance with this Tad kid which will somehow get him to like her—I'm not actually sure how that is supposed to work, but in any case, I am already enough of an outcast without her wrath, so I better consent." Just as she is about to leave, she turns around and adds, "Oh, by the way, that baseball cap looks really nice on you."

He does not remember what happens after that.

Except, you know, for the idiotic smile that somehow blooms across his pathetic mug.

* * *

"He _is _sort of attractive," Cee Cee admits, taking a sip of her non-fat latte. They're at the Coffee Clutch, and a couple tables away are Suze and Tad Beaumont.

_Yeah, If you're into hermaphrodites in silk tees_, he thinks bitterly, but does not actually voice it. Instead, he continues skulking and noncommittally stirs the plastic stirrer in his coffee cup. It's no frills, just black. He doesn't even put sugar in it.

"You have to admit, though," Cee Cee continues, as she raises her sunglasses to their proper place, "the guy does have a lot going for him. I mean, between the whole basketball thing and his money . . ."

"Yeah, but . . ." He struggles to find the right words. What leaves his mouth eventually is a childish insult. ". . . it looks like he's got syphilis on his neck!"

Cee Cee makes a sound of disgust. "_Eww_, Adam! It's just poison oak, probably. Like Suze has on her hands."

He hates Tad Beaumont, hates him more than words can really explain. Or, at least, his words, anyway.

It's illogical; he knows that. There's really nothing wrong with Tad, other than the fact that he's incredibly rich and athletic and a 'total babe' (Cee Cee's words, not his), but despite all that, he kind of hates the guy.

Maybe it's because of the way Suze reacts to his smile, or how he has casually brushed her hand at least three times in the past six minutes. Or maybe it's the fact that Tad Beaumont has been able to get by in life without developing a sense of humor because his money does all the talking for him. Yeah, it's probably that reason.

Or, you know, all three of 'em.

"Listen, if I would have known you were going to be so moody and forlorn," Cee Cee directs at him, sounding more than annoyed, "I wouldn't have come. Why did you even invite me along, anyway?"

Finally, he manages to tear his gaze off of "Simont" (a ridiculous joint name that had popped into his head yesterday) and directs his attention instead on his friend. A sinking feeling takes hold of his stomach as he realizes how ignorant he has been of her presence, and suddenly he feels incredibly guilty. Forcefully, he pushes all thoughts of Suze and _Tad_ out of his head and executes one of his most endearing smiles.

"Sorry, Cee," he apologizes, nudging her foot affably under the table. Despite herself, she rolls her eyes and smiles back at him. "So tell me more about this _Shark Week_ thing. You're telling me that for an _entire_ week Discovery Channel airs shows only having to do with sharks?"

She nods her head enthusiastically. "Yeah, but that's not even the _best_ part . . ."

He wonders idly if Suze and Tad are having sex yet.

* * *

She calls him late one night sometime during the summer.

It's weird because they don't talk on the phone all that often, and when they do, it's usually some time in the afternoon to confirm plans and Cee Cee's usually on the other end, too. Other than Cee Cee, it is the first girl to ever call him. It makes him sort of nervous.

Still, he answers the phone, and the last conversation topic he expects to talk about is her love life, or more accurately, some stalker at her job that will not leave her alone.

But like a good, loyal friend, he dutifully listens, all the while thinking that her life would be a lot less complicated if she would just come to her senses and go out with him.

Sadly, he realizes this is as likely to happen as Father Dominic getting laid.

* * *

"Do you ever wish you could just . . . disappear? You know, not have to deal with boy problems or whatever?"

He lets her words sink in before he answers. "I don't have boy problems, Suze."

She laughs and punches him in the arm. Even though it's supposed to be playful, his arm throbs slightly afterwards. A part of his brain thinks she might be taking steroids. Her strength is incredibly unnatural. "Girl problems, then," she reiterates. "You know what I mean."

The sand feels cool between his toes, and the moon's reflection on the opaque ocean water casts a bluish glow on both himself and Suze. She's wearing a pretty black and white striped sweater with a pair of denim capris, and her hair is piled messily on the top of her head with a few strands framing her face. _She's beautiful_, he thinks. It's as simple as that. He has never been in love with someone as equally beautiful as she is down to earth.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he has never been in love at all, which is not surprising in the least bit considering the female population at JSMA.

"I guess you could say I wish life was easier, sure," he finally admits somewhat philosophically, "but that's kind of life's purpose, isn't it? To be tough? To build character?Wasn't it Shakespeare who said something about having to understand tragedy to before you can understand comedy? I mean, if life was a gas all the time, we would become immune to happiness like in that book _Brave New World_."

She remains quiet for a moment, and all he can hear is the sound of the waves crashing into the beach and the rhythmic pace of his and her synonymous breathing. Finally: "Whoa . . . that's deep, McTavish," she states bluntly, sounding impressed.

Without really meaning to, his chest puffs out proudly and he replies arrogantly, "You know, after ninth grade I just started going for it, and now I can't stop the genius that flows within this sextastic shell. I'm like a textbook . . . with a six-pack."

Their laughter soon afterward dies down, until once again the only sounds are those of their combined breathing and the ocean. He can't remember the last time he has ever felt this peaceful, this serene. Actually, he can't remember the last time he used the word "serene". The fact that Cee Cee couldn't come on their expedition makes him a little happier than he is used to. In reality, he and Suze don't get a lot of alone time together. It's too early to decide whether he is happy or nervous about the occasion. Although, at the moment, he's leaning toward the former.

When she doesn't say anything in the next five minutes, an idea occurs to him that is so absurd, so outlandish that he thinks he might be hallucinating. And this time, he can't blame any spiked drink.

He has thought of kissing Suze before, but never have the circumstances been so in his favor. It's dark for one, and they are alone, secondly, and thirdly . . . well, thirdly, he is feeling just enough bravado to actually go through with it. Perhaps it is the sea breeze, or maybe it's the sound of her laugh that clinched his decision, but in any case, he goes through with it. He reaches out and kisses her.

Contact is brief, and if he could have gotten the chance to close his eyes, he probably would have missed it. And in the second that Suze almost reciprocates, it's almost as if she thinks better of it and pulls away, looking at him wide eyed. Instantly, he wonders if sticking his head in the sand is as difficult as it seems because even being Rob Kelleher's butt monkey seems preferable to the mortification that courses through his body.

Well, okay, maybe nothing that extreme.

He can't think of anything to say. For the first time in his life, he is literally speechless. The sensation is foreign and even a bit frightening. He _always_ has something to say, even if it's something stupid like a "priest and a rabbi" joke that he has told a million times. No matter the situation, he always has a comment. But now, at this moment, he has absolutely nothing.

"Adam, w-what are you doing?" She sounds frightened, and she touches her lips as if trying to realize what she has done.

"I, uh," he says with an embarrassed laugh because, really, this only ever happens to him, "I am—I mean, I was, um, kissing you."

"You can't," she blurts, but then adds, "I mean, I'm not . . . I don't . . . I don't like you like that."

"Oh," he says startled by the bluntness of her declaration. Suddenly, the sea breeze doesn't feel so refreshing. As a matter of fact, it almost feels like it's taunting him now. Is this what true rejection feels like? Because he was rejected from that coloring contest back in third grade, but it feels absolutely nothing, he repeats, _nothing _like this. Is it possible for your lungs to break? "Right."

"No," she says as if it will clear everything up, as if it will redact her previous statement. She sounds sad as if she pities him. Somehow that hurts more than her original rejection. "I just mean . . . I'm pretty vulnerable right now, and if I kiss you, I'll only be hurting you. I like you, Adam, I do, but . . . just as a friend. I'm . . . sorry."

He could not be in more pain if Al Capone would show up and shoot him in the aorta, and it _so_ figures that in his moment of pain he finally remembers the name of that artery as opposed to the other day during that biology test when he could not for the life of him remember it.

He hates his life.

Suddenly, Suze's words to him at Kelly Prescott's party come blaring to life in his head, and he can't help but repeat them back to her somewhat angrily. It's not her fault she's not in love with him, but _damn it_, he has a right to be angry every now and then. "I appreciate the sentiment," he quotes from memory with a somewhat acidic tone, "but you'll understand if I am still mortified by the turn of events."

Suze looks down at the blanket the two of them are seated on. "I deserved that." She sounds remorseful. "Look, I'm really sorry, Adam."

He exhales sharply and collapses onto his back. As he looks up at the sky, he doesn't recall the stars ever looking so much like bullet holes in a wounded sky before tonight. Also, he doesn't recall ever sympathizing with the sky before. There is always a first for everything, he supposes. He sighs again. "I know," he finally admits, unable to bring himself to look at her, "but just give me a few days to mourn, okay?" For whatever reason, he can feel his sense of humor start to return. Maybe it's because deep down, he always sort of knew Suze did not return his feelings; it was inevitable. "You did, after all, sort of rip my heart out of my chest, stick it on a rotisserie, and cook it to a medium rare."

Her smile is tentative and small, but in the end, there. "Okay," she says. "I can live with that."

They lie there, silently, all night, and in the morning, he can already begin to feel the formation of a scab on the gaping hole in his chest cavity.

* * *

**_TG/N: Up next . . . Dee Dee Wackerman (David "Doc"/Cee Cee) . . . Maybe!_**

**_See, the thing is, Dee Dee Wackerman is only a tentative idea, but if any of you have another request, I am more than open to suggestion. Of course, in the end, I might just end up writing Dee Dee Wackerman, but I will certainly add your suggestions to the Odd Couple vault._**

**_So, please, review! Comment! Just push that lilac colored button!_**


	4. Dee Dee Wackerman

**TG/N: **I realize that it has been four months since my last rapid update, but I had some trouble with this piece. Then, just the other night, inspiration struck in the form of the first sentence to the second section, and it was like everything suddenly clicked. I love that feeling. So, here it is. And just to keep things clear, the first section occurs two years before Suze arrives on the scene, while the others all occur P.S.

**Part Four: Dee Dee Wackerman (Cee Cee/David "Doc")**

He first meets her in the breezeway of the Mission on his first day of sixth grade year. She's speaking to an inferior male specimen of approximately the same age about the deeper philosophical roots of Kurt Vonnegut's novel _Slaughterhouse-Five_, a novel he read last year for leisure. Besides _The Giver_, it's one of his favorites.

"But it goes so much further, Adam, than just aliens and time traveling," she explains sounding a little exasperated as if she's been over this more than a few times before. "The protagonist's fragile mindset demonstrates the destructive nature of war, the time traveling and the Tralfamdorians show that freewill is bogus, the tiny phrase 'So it goes' illuminates the inevitability of death in a messed up world, making the novel a prime candidate for the absurdist movement or even the existentialist movement if you stretch it. But the real beauty is how like Huxley and Orwell, Vonnegut uses science fiction to emphasize these real world truths, therefore proving to the public that sci-fi is a legitimate art form."

The boy, Adam, walking next to her, ignores the argument and says, "Well, I would agree with you if I finished the reading, but I didn't which is exactly why I am so glad I signed up for Academic English. The most in depth thing we'll read all year is most likely going to be _See Spot Run_ which is great because if I have to read one more John Steinbeck book, I think I'm going to cry. Or vomit. Either seems—"

"Adam!" she begins to protest, but is interrupted when David accidentally walks into the pair of them, dropping all of his things everywhere.

He begins apologizing rapid fire. "Sorry. Sorry! I'm so sorry!" He can feel his ears redden, which causes him to feel more embarrassed than he already does, if that is even possible.

"Whoa," Adam laughs, helping the girl pick up his things, "it's like the male version of Cee Cee."

The girl, Cee Cee, rolls her eyes. "Stop it, Adam," she reproves acerbically.

"Relax, Webb," Adam advises, turning his gaze to him now. "You got a name, kid?"

"David," he says quietly, so quietly in fact he doubts anyone can hear him, so he repeats the name. "David Ackerman."

Adam's expression changes from humored to frightened, but it's Cee Cee who puts the pieces together. "Ackerman . . ." she repeats aloud. "You're Brad Ackerman's younger brother, aren't you?"

He nods silently before rambling off another ridiculous apology. ". . . and then I couldn't help but overhear your argument about _Slaughterhouse-Five_, an argument I have made countless times to my peers, and the next thing I know, I walked into the two of you. I'm really sorry," he tacks onto the end of it as if the small phrase somehow makes his rambling more sensible.

Adam grins, ignoring his prior pretenses and remarks, "There's a five time apology limit 'round these here parts. One more, and we might have to gag you."

The girl rolls her eyes and slaps Adam's arm playfully. "Stop it; you're scaring him," she chastises, handing him his books first, then his glasses. Their fingers accidentally brush when he goes to take his glasses, but he's too nervous to even notice. "I'm Cee Cee, by the way," she introduces once they have both stood up again, "and this is Adam. He doesn't appreciate decent literature, so it's nice to meet someone who does. Although, I have to ask: how old are you?"

"Eleven," he admits, hoping his voice doesn't squeak.

Cee Cee doesn't seem too shocked by the reveal, though, and moves on, saying, "Well, it was nice meeting you, David."

He means to reciprocate, say "you too" or even "likewise" but he finds that his voice barely works. And that if he moves, he might just wet himself

- - -

She comes over for dinner on a school night.

It's okay, he guesses, well, not really. For one thing, his dad rarely ever takes to inviting outsiders to diner mainly because of the 'dinner time equals sanctimonious family time' ideal he seems to stubbornly cling to. Although rules seem to be extra malleable where Suze is concerned. He doesn't mind it much, but he can't help thinking about that time a couple years ago when he invited his friend, Shane, over for dinner and ended up having to sit through part four in an infinite part series created by his father, entitled "The History of Family and the End of Day Dining Ritual." He's seen PBS programming more scintillating than that overused speech.

And another thing. He has a paper for ecology about the effects of deforestation on a global and local level due tomorrow. He would have had more written except he's been playing the new _Metal Gear Solid 4_—an excellent blend of superior graphic design and in depth storytelling as well as thorough character development and analysis—all weekend. This is why, he thinks to himself glumly as he struggles to keep a frown from permeating his features, he continues to tell Brad that procrastination will get you nowhere in life. With her at the table, it's not as if he can find an opportune moment to escape from the table. That would be rude, first off, and secondly, he imagines his father might _actually_ kill him.

So he sits there, trying to feign interest at the work anecdote his step-mother tells with animated hand gestures and trying to keep an amused smile plastered on his face, all the while his mind clings to the single though of that darn ecology paper, which refuses to leave him well alone. Mentally, he curses Solid Snake for distracting him this weekend.

Haphazardly, he reaches for a dinner roll, not because he's particularly hungry, but because he needs something to preoccupy his mind, even if it's only for a second. He stops cold in his movement, remains frozen like a stone sculpture, when, as he glances over at his intended destination, he discovers Cee Cee Webb had the same idea, and her hand seems to be accidentally touching his. He remains speechless, but it doesn't escape his notice that she seems to be the one person in Carmel he is not paler than.

After what seems like an eternity, they both pull their hands away. He does so first, but her movement is graceful. His . . . not so much.

"Sorry," he mutters juvenilely folding his hands in his lap, then thinking better of it, and sitting on them instead. The white noise, like AM radio static, clears from his head as he blushes like a lunatic.

"Oh, sorry, David," she apologizes genially before launching herself right back into the group's discussion. "I completely agree with you, Mr. Ackerman, about a company's need to specialize labor in order to increase productivity. It's just basic economic sense. For instance, back when I worked at the Carmel Pine Cone . . ."

He barely listens for the next couple minutes before he nudges his step-mother and asks to be excused, explaining about the paper. She is much more sympathetic than his father, and soon enough, he bounds up the steps, two at a time, to get to his room and finish writing. But when he finally does get down to work, he realizes his mind is still preoccupied. Asking Brad to cover the dishes for him tonight was probably the worst idea in the world.

On the plus side, he won't have the PlayStation 3 to distract him next weekend.

Or, if Brad has any say, ever.

- - -

"She digs you, you know."

"E-Excuse me?"

"The pale chick," his oldest brother, Jake, further explains. "The one Suze brought over the other night? Her name's somethin' like Evelyn or Yvonne—"

"—Cee Cee—" he suggests.

"Yeah, yeah!" Jake grins triumphantly and somehow lazily. "That's the one." His head disappears under the hood of the Camaro. "Cee Cee likes you, D."

He props himself up on the red tool cabinet nearby and watches his older brother for a moment. "That's impossible," he says unflinchingly. It's not self deprecation, it's what logic dictates. Just like adult lions do not mate with cubs, sixteen year olds do not hold interest in thirteen year olds. If there was a name for it, he decides, it would be called the Common Sense Addition Postulate.

Jake's head pops up again from behind the hood. There are grease stains on his nose, left cheek, and forehead. "You're kidding me, right?"

He makes a motion to answer, but realizes it is a rhetorical question, so he remains silent.

There's no mistaking his brother's eye roll before he, once again, disappears behind the car's hood. "You need a reality check, D," Jake advises as if the process wasn't just an idiom. "Look at the facts, man. She actually paid attention to you when you described the purpose of your project for physics. Meanwhile, I struggled just to keep my eyes open, so I could _pretend_ to be interested. And nobody laughed as hard as she did when you told that joke about isotopes or whatever. She totally has a thing for you."

"That's . . ." he struggles to find the appropriate word, ". . . _improbable_."

But Jake refuses to listen to reason as he throws a grease stained rag over his shoulder. He slams the car hood shut, walks over to the passenger side, and leans against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look," he explains, sounding more awake than David has ever heard him sound before, "you may be a boy genius like that cartoon kid with the big head, and you may know more about trigalculus than I ev—"

"Trigonometry and calculus," he corrects, trying not to cringe.

"What?"

"You said 'trigalculus,'" he repeats, but it's trigonometry and calc—"

"—Yeah, okay, whatever," Jake interrupts, enjoying his sudden role as mentor. "The point is when it comes to girls, I'm the genius here." He points to his head. "I know the inner workings of their minds. So trust me when I say that Dee Dee—"

"—Cee Cee—"

"—right, Cee Cee," he corrects, "was giving off some serious vibes the other night. And unlike Suze, she doesn't seem to be in any kind of street gang."

For whatever reason, David's hands become suddenly clammy and he can feel the tips of his ears start to redden, and he knows it has nothing to do with the cheap halogen lights hanging over the workbench. He responds with the first thing he can think of. "Suze isn't in a gang."

Jake just shakes his head and laughs before turning his attention back to the Camaro. "That's what she wants us to think. Remember"—He points to his head again.—"inner workings. I can read 'em like a book."

Somehow, David admits to himself as he leaves his brother in search of food, he finds that statement lacking any foundation of credibility whatsoever.

- - -

She calls the house one time when Suze is out. When he informs her of this, she seems only mildly disappointed, and then after a minute of silence, asks him if he watched _Nova_ this week. He tells her, no, he regretfully missed it this week, but he did happen to catch _Lost_, and then they launch into a discussion about which was better: _Lost_ or _The X-Files_.

When he finally hands the phone up, he can't describe exactly how he feels. On the one hand, something resembling happiness seems to be residing in the pit of his stomach. He feels like this is the girl he wishes to mate with or at least share his Dark Horse _Buffy the Vampire Slayer _comic books with.

Mostly, though, he feels hungry, so he heads toward the kitchen.

- - -

"We can't" is her response to his "I am interested in pursuing you socially in a courtship setting."

It's not exactly the "no" he was expecting, but it hurts a lot less than when she admits she's attracted to someone else. He suspects it's Adam or else Paul Slater, in which case he has no chance. Silently, he curses Jake for even putting the idea of the two of them in his head in the first place. He never would have been in this situation if it wasn't for Jake.

"I'm quite mature for my age," he can hear himself desperately argue, pulling at the last few strings hoping for even the smallest semblance of reciprocation. "And-And with my knowledge of physics and CAD, I could design us a shelter should we ever get lost or—"

As he hears himself speak, he realizes he sounds like a complete moron. Mentally, he searches for the 'eject' or the 'rewind' button, preferably the 'terminate permanently' button.

"David."

She says his name in the tone he has heard so many other girls use with him before. It's pity laced with embarrassment sprinkled with a thin layer of disgust. He knows that at this point, his ears probably resemble a maraschino cherry, but he can't bring himself to care. Right now, his tiny heart is breaking, and yes, it's a lot worse than when the Sci-Fi network announced it was airing it's final season of _Battlestar Galactica_ this year.

"Don't you want a girl who's more your age?" she asks carefully. He also knows this act well. It's a diversionary tactic that involves asking him if perhaps he has made some mistake in his judgment. This way the girl can let herself off easy instead of becoming the assailant.

He nods anyway, to entertain her, perhaps. "Yes," he replies, "I have, in fact, given this some thought, but I am certain in my decision. I . . ." He can't bring himself to say the words, even though he knows in his heart that his feelings are genuine. "I . . . like you, Cee Cee. I am attracted to your personality as well as your physical attributes, and I also find you to be sexually alluring."

Cee Cee claps a hand over her own mouth and stares wide eyed. "_You can't say 'sex!'_" she hisses in a hushed undertone. She looks around her, as if searching for someone to save her from the situation. "_You're only thirteen!_'

The age mention feels like a low blow, but he chooses to ignore it and continue with his proposition even though it feels like "no" has become the staple word in her vocabulary within the past fifteen minutes. "Cee Cee," he tries again, but she stops him.

"Look, David," she says as she stands from her seated position on the living room couch, "I'm flattered. I really am. But I just don't think a relationship between you and I would be the most realistic thing right now. Not only because you are thirteen and have your whole life ahead of you to find someone much hotter, but because I'm sort of into somebody else. I'm sorry."

Her hand grasps the door knob, and she's just about to leave when he blurts out, "I'll wait for you!"

She turns around, stunned beyond belief. "Pardon?"

He repeats himself. "I won't date anyone else, and I'll wait for you to change your mind, just . . . please." He can literally hear himself begging now. "Give me a chance."

The silence between them is tangible, nearly suffocating. Something in Cee Cee's countenance changes, and the next thing he realizes, she's walking over to him, and she plants a kiss on the top of his head. Now his ears are _really _red. "I'll tell you what," she says, finally speaking, "what do you say to being friends? And then after that, we can see where it takes us?"

He's tempted to say no. Every other girl only wants to offer him _friendship_, and he's convinced that it's all part of an incredibly unfair conspiracy. But something about the way Cee Cee gives out her offer makes him think that she genuinely means it. That she really wants to be his friends, and isn't just saying it to get him off her back. He stares at her outstretched hand as if it's an alien object. Tentatively, he grasps it, shakes it firmly. She smiles and he can't help but reciprocate the gesture.

* * *

**_TG/N: _****_Up next . . . I really don't know! Possibly Jaul de Silvter (Paul/Jesse)? Or even Gaul (Gina/Paul)? I know everyone has already given requests, but this time, put one down that you're really interested in, and I'll think about it._**

**_Did you notice this one didn't end on a kiss? I just couldn't bring myself to have Cee Cee commit cradle robbery. Seriously, the kid's thirteen! "But you had no problem supporting incest!" you all cry, upon which I ignore you because I am eerily fascinated by Brad/Suze, so shut up._**

**_So, please, review! Comment! Suggest! (My fingers are crossed for Paul/Father Dom)! Just press that tiny ol' button down in the corner!_**


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